The Center of 'I'
by Cynical Chaos
Summary: An old man sees life through bars of an institution.


The Center of "I"

by Cynical Chaos

(A/N): Because the "Harumi/Maria" conflict is just to good to ignore.

First time with Paranoia Agent so offer up love not hate. Just follow the hippies.

Also, any theories I make or suggest are just theories, I'm not a psych lord or something.

Don't own, you know the drill.

"_Where can one say that 'I' begins and 'me' ends? This seemingly absurd question can, in fact, hold a great deal of explanation for the mass of humanity. To say that 'I' am 'me' and that 'you' are 'you' is a fallacy as humans constantly re-evaluate and outright change their perspectives of themselves on what seems to be a day to day basis. Through interaction with others, one's ego changes, constantly. Even in total seclusion, one cannot say that he remains unchanged. How then can you or I say that, in all truth and confidence, that 'I am myself and you are not me?' After all, if one is told that his or her sense of fashion is horrific, would he not feel obliged to change it to please the offended? This action is an appeal through change to satisfy the others. If such an occurrence were to be repeated, would one feel offended? Is a feeling of offence or outrage the sign that one's sense of self secure? Does that matter? In either case a change in one's perceptions occurs. Following the above example, perhaps it can be said that those, when confronted with their lack of fashion, feeling not only offended, but outraged, that those people not only have a truly mind numbing taste in bad clothes but also have a very firm sense of self. This is, of course, merely the conjectures of an old man brought about by the distress of a young woman with obvious mental trauma. So, I stare at this woman and think to myself: 'What has she done to create such a dichotomy within herself?' For I look and see a make up smeared face twisted in an agony most easily defined as 'utter horror' stumbling about the streets as one drunk or insane, speaking words of argumentation and denial to her unseen assailant; I see all this and I can only think of the day to day horrors that men inflict upon themselves. Self-centered abuses for simple failures, the inner destruction of withheld emotion for the sake of public face and more. It is not the truth, I think when men look at the insane and say that those people have suffered an imbalance or a trauma. I say that the insane are the most clearly thinking creatures alive. From the rapists to the murderers to those who simply sit and foam; these beings are those the most in touch with themselves, the 'true I.' An inwards glimpse shows one the truth of himself. Through others we, humans, as changing creatures seek these outsiders for influence and thus stability, and though this seems to create a stable sense of self, it is the core of ourselves that dictate what we are. A shell or mask lasts as long as it is worn, and when removed, the love, hate, rage, bitterness, envy, compassion are revealed. Though for some, merely such an act is their motive force for their instabilities. To deny oneself of one's self is to base one's center on what others believe 'you' to be; thus becoming a greater lie than the existence of the mask. To show only a mask is a lie, to allow one's life to be dictated by outside perceptions is a lie. A dichotomy, and a paradox furthered by man's central nature. To be human is to change, yet we hate to change ourselves. Further, we hate being told to change, something that is reprehensible to us, yet to mature and to create relationships with others, we have to change our perceptions of our worldview, a view that ultimately changes who were are. This marks the growth of child to man. So it remains that, in the end, 'I' will never truly be able to say that 'I' am 'myself,' for I am not myself, 'I' am you and 'you' are me. To find a balance between you and I is to, perhaps, find peace, or a cessation inner turmoil. One can never find himself. That way lies madness. Turn others into your mirror, see yourself through their eyes and find change."_

* * *

Writing of chalk on the ground, smeared by age, weather and traffic.

An old man peering through the windows at his work.

The roar of a oncoming car, the splash of the wheels hitting water, a slight wave, a foam of white.

The sidewalk is once again unblemished.

The old man, perhaps finding irony in this, turns from the window and back to the inside of the outside of his head.


End file.
